January Omen

 

The red-wings are back
whirling community
of black songsters
wheeling as one
intent on their purpose
moment of promise
in this bleak
midwinter

On Why I Don't Celebrate

The first day of the year
means nothing
to juncos
foraging among
winter-bleached asters
in the old field
or the white-throats
who rummage through
the garden floor's
dry leaves
for fallen seeds

Grey squirrels 
gleaning black walnuts
hidden last autumn
and the red fox
hunting voles
in the east meadow
do not mark 
the day

Why should they
when every 
new morning
is a gift?

Holy Heralds

 

Holy Heralds

they are
no angels proclaiming
on this Christmas dawn
but sleepy rustlings
and voices
from fields
and barn

White-throats and cardinals
softly chipping
in the meadow
at first light
hallow
the cold and cloudy
grayness
with their glad
tidings

The goats’ quiet
nickers
greet the only shepherd
present
in the stable
this morning
tending her flock in the darkness
and humming hymns
of the One
newly born

Awaken!
The Holy has come
Christmas slipping
in through
the sacred ordinary
of this
day of days
once again.

What the Pictures Don't Depict

 It is time for a reprise of this poem from a couple of years ago.

Most of the Nativity scenes we have come to know,
those pictures of Mary looking rested,
confident and clean,
serene and smiling,
looking comfortable...
They don’t depict the weariness,
the immobilizing exhaustion
of hard labor,
nor the
all-consuming effort
it takes
to push a baby out into this world,
nor the blood and
amniotic fluid,
nor the expelled placenta
that needed to be cleaned up
after the birth.

Those scenes the artists render
of spotless robes
and a tidy stable (or cave)
with cozy light...
They don’t depict the manure on the floor,
nor livestock urinating into their bedding,
nor the interior’s darkness illumined only
by candle light.

Surely there were mice in the straw.
Were there rats?
Did Mary nervously notice
every sound of scurrying
around her?
How did she ever sleep?

Of course the baby would be laid
in the feeding trough.
Where else?
Set up off the floor,
the safest and cleanest spot
available.
Were there cows?
Did they amble over
to the manger,
to sniff, and lick,
and welcome Jesus
as the new baby in their midst,
as cows are prone to do?
Did Joseph keep a wary eye
the attending animals’
curious attention
to his
newly-born son?

The historic birth was
far more miraculous than we
might imagine.
Jesus survived.
So did Mary.
And all the detail not depicted
in the artists’ renditions
makes Mary
one of us.

And makes Jesus, whom she bore
by the sweat of her brow,
one of us.
One with us.
Emmanuel.

The Spare Season's Subtle Song

 

The icy stream bubbles between
shallow stones
singing as she tumbles
by boulders 
and below submerged
black gum roots

A solitary titmouse whistles the descant
chickadees chirp a staccato antiphon
from on high
white-throats rustle
like brushes on a snare drum
in the scattered leaf layer below

Howling winds whine
through white oaks' bare branches
breezes rattle beeches' 
lingering leaves

Winter waiting in the woodland
Advent choir along Dogwood Run

May It Be - A Poem for Thanksgiving 2025

 

Let wandering sassafras roam the garden
let Beauty meander where it will
overtopping staid intentions
for what should
be.

Let autumn's asters reseed with abandon
let Wisdom blow across the land
scattered as by a breath
to barren places
lacking life.

Let rivers rise across the floodplain
let Truth be carried by the current
deposited as fertile silt
rejuvenating weary
minds.

Let rain patter gently on all the lands
let Love soak into thirsty ground
softening arid soils and souls
becoming part of all
that is.

Life Calls to Life

 

Every scrap of remaining beauty
every last
autumn-tinted leaf hanging from a twig
or lying
still vibrant on the forest floor

Every morning clothed in mist
every drizzly
day of rain pattering on spent gardens
or frozen fields 
frosted white at sunrise

Every cardinal's clipped chip note
every whitethroat's
sweet whistle in the hedgerow
or the junco's
bell choir in the winter meadow

Every moment holy